


the moon is the same everywhere (but it feels different here)

by freudiancascade



Category: Supernatural, Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Gen, but really -- this is a fic about Scott McCall, everybody is an outsider POV on everybody else's particular flavor of Weird, most of this fic is one big Beacon Hills Gothic meme shitpost, the argent family are legends
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-13
Updated: 2018-10-13
Packaged: 2019-08-01 07:29:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,036
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16280282
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/freudiancascade/pseuds/freudiancascade
Summary: Beacon Hills is Argent territory. It always has been. There is not a single hunter in the game who doesn't know that and give the town a wide berth because of it.For many years, that was good enough.But the world is different now, and none of the old certainties ever seem to layer just right on top of it.





	the moon is the same everywhere (but it feels different here)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [liliaeth](https://archiveofourown.org/users/liliaeth/gifts).



> Thank you to the wonderful friends who helped me figure this one out: @AmbientMagic, @KARIN848, and @WingedFlight! Any remaining errors, as always, are my own.
> 
> Content warning for brief endangerment of children.

* * *

The first time the apocalypse happens, Beacon Hills barely notices. It is that kind of town, located somehow both at the epicentre of magical confluence while remaining outside the usual push and flow of happenstance and destiny. An anomaly on the map, both bullseye and blind spot. It also helps that garden variety apocalypses are big city affairs. They need people to _witness_ them, and they need _greatness_ to cast to ruin, and Beacon Hills has little to offer of either.

It runs entirely on a magic of its own, most of the time, and the bigger forces know to leave it well enough alone.

So when the end of the world rolls over this out-of-the-way little place, some birds behave strangely and some of those odd folk who are sensitive to these kinds of things lose several nights of rest. A banshee sleepwalks three evenings in a row and awakens screeching into the empty sky; in the mornings, she covers the dark circles under her eyes with make-up and dodges the questions of her friends. A small group of Druids meet under the light of the moon to consult their arcane pathways, fretting with knitted brows over events they know are far beyond their control. The werewolves all agree that the air smells somehow _wrong_ , though nothing ever entirely comes of it and they eventually half-heartedly agree it must have been "some kind of a sewer thing.” The Argent family is more informed than most, though every contact they call says to hunker down and wait for it to blow over.

And so that is exactly what happens.

* * *

There is an entry in the Argent bestiary for angels, and Allison never was sure what to make of it. The book is French, and therefore incredibly concerned with matters of holiness, and it reads more as a parable than an actual guide to anything resembling action.

 _Take cover_ , it says, _and pray that you are not found worthy. There is no greater gift nor curse than that of the Divinity-touched._

She had translated the rest with a strange sense of dread: _if angels walk the earth, it is too late to interfere._

But she had never found out exactly what that meant.

* * *

When a chaos demon tries to break a human mind, it spins tales of many kinds of hell. Some of these are metaphorical; others, of course, are literal. Even as it lacks direct experience with these Western constructs, it is well-versed in all ways the universe possesses to inflict pain and delights in sharing them.

It threatens and hisses and howls, but Stiles Stilinski is too concerned with the game of survival to spend his energy thinking about much beyond his next breath. He worries only about his next move, terror blessedly narrowing his focus down. And later, in an unexpected kind of mercy, this information will blend into just another facet of a nightmare dreamscape.

He doesn't need any more demons.

* * *

So when Scott McCall literally bumps into an angel on the street, he can easily be forgiven for not knowing what he's encountered. Even if the clues were there in some form, there was never any reason for him to follow them to any conclusion.

Beacon Hills is the kind of place where many things happen, but not this thing in particular.

Besides, he has other stuff on his mind—he hasn't even begun to prepare for the math test on Thursday, that weird smell is back and he's certain it has nothing to do with sewers of any sort, Kira's birthday is coming up soon and he doesn't know what to give her, three children have gone missing from backyards bordering on the preserve in the past two weeks, Isaac sent a letter and Scott needs to sit down with his mom so they can write the reply together, the moon is going to be full in a few days, the phone at his hip is buzzing constantly and he can only hope it doesn't mean the pack group chat has erupted into another argument....It all blends into a slurry inside his head sometimes, the supernatural and the mundane, a mix of worries and to-do lists and problems and plans and minutiae, the things that keep the people he loves together and safe. Scott has gotten good at juggling them all, because they need him to, but he knows he still needs to get even better.

The man that Scott bumps into has blue eyes and dark hair that ruffles without any wind to cast it aloft. He's talking into a cell phone like it's a person standing next to him, voice raised in confusion: "That doesn't make sense, Dean!" His coat is large and billowy and it smells like church, somehow, and also like blood. Scott's eyes widen; he catches himself against the brick wall with an outstretched hand. Instinctively he knows something about this stranger is wrong.

"Are you okay?" Scott blurts out. It doesn't occur to him to be afraid.

The strange man quickens his pace, rounding a corner with determination. There is a rush like a beating of many wings.

When Scott skids into the mouth of the alleyway in pursuit, the man is entirely gone.

* * *

Beacon Hills is Argent territory. It always has been.

There is not a single hunter in the game who doesn't know that and give the town a wide berth because of it. John Winchester had told his young sons many times: "there are places we just don't go, boys, because they're in hands we don't want to mess with." John had worked a case with Chris Argent once, and it was the kind of legend that was best shared around campfires after a couple of beers. "A good man," the conclusion had always been, "and we need to stay the hell away from his turf."

For many years, that was good enough.

But the world is different now, and none of the old certainties ever seem to layer just right on top of it. Sam spends hours on his battered old laptop before coming to Dean with a flood of information about _"ley lines acting weird"_ and _"sacrificial murders, lots of them"_ and _"missing children."_ And if that weren't enough, he backs it up with _"we need a case anyways"_ and _"obituary clippings for three Argents in the last two years"_ and _"if we can figure out the town is currently undefended, so could anything else mean enough to take advantage of it."_

Sometimes Dean hates it when Sam is right, or when Sam uses his puppy dog eyes gratuitously enough to make the question of "right" into a moot point. At the end of the day, something is definitely happening in Beacon Hills, and Dean shoves down his misgivings. The Argents are the kind of family that accumulates myths in the same way other families accumulate hand-me-downs -- relentlessly, constantly, and without any sense of effort.

Any town that could kill three of them is absolutely bad news, end of the world or not.

* * *

There are no ghosts in Beacon Hills, either.

At first, when Dean reaches for the EMP reader and tries to take a cursory scan, it doesn't make any damn sense—the readings are all over the charts, and not in a way that follows any coherent sort of pattern. It's like the entire town itself is haunted, the air electric from the charge of it. Given the number of murders this small town has seen Dean isn't entirely surprised, but he is concerned.

"Telluric currents," Cas says by way of explanation, as though that should explain any part of this. Dean just casts him a glare, and smacks the reader with the side of his palm one more time.

* * *

There is an entry for “rawheads” in the Argent bestiary. It matches the description of the attacker seen on the security footage that Stiles had managed to get from off his father’s desk, though it is infuriatingly vague on the details.

“It doesn’t tell us any of the important things,” Scott says, combing his hand back through his hair. “We don’t need to know how to kill it. We just need to know why it’s hurting, why it’s _doing_ this.”

Lydia frowns, folding one leg over the other as her hands run gently over the fabric of a stolen shirt. “The children are still alive,” she announces to the room, and then hops down from the edge of the desk. Her heels click as she paces. “Why? Why take them, if it wasn’t going to hurt them?”

“Maybe it’s looking for somebody?” Kira suggests.

“But who?”

“All the missing kids—anything look strange to you about them?” There’s a series of photographs tacked up on the wall, strung together with threads.

“They all look the same. Brown hair, brown eyes, they look like they could all be re—oh.”

“ _Exactly_.”

* * *

Beacon Hills does not have ghosts, or angels, or demons of the usual sort. Cas goes quiet and solemn after that last pronouncement, in that oddly pensive way he has, but Dean isn't willing to pry the lid off any bigger boxes of weird than the one that's already right in front of them.

All that matters, with four missing children now and a clock ticking on finding any of them left alive, is narrowing down exactly which kinds of monsters this town _does_ have. Dean and Sam run through the angles, work the steps of the case, cross suspects off the list, and find themselves with a refreshingly narrow range of options.

They haven't seen a rawhead in years, not since Nebraska, but it fits the bill better than the rest. Tracing his fingers along a map of the nature preserve, Dean pauses over a rock formation labelled _The Kitchen Cupboard_. Below it, a basin of stagnant water pools into an unmapped cave and tunnel system.

"Bingo," he says to nobody in particular. "That's got to be it." And so Dean checks his guns several times in the hours before nightfall, as well as a taser (despite the warning look on Sam's face, and the _remember what happened last time_ that goes blessedly unspoken). When he's satisfied, he paces the worn carpet of the motel on the edge of town as the moon floats up to rest, nearly full, in the apex of the sky.

* * *

The preserve after nightfall is an unearthly place. Dean cuts the engine, and he and Sam are silent as they hike the short distance to the caverns.

When they reach the split mouth of the tunnel system Sam gestures left, one hand steadying the gun in the other, and so Dean goes right. Which means that Dean is alone when he finds them.

The children are sitting in a semi-circle in a clearing, their heads bowed forward, dark hair draped like curtains over small faces. Unmoving, all of them. Dean crouches, lifts a hand to the nearest girl's wrist. He doesn't bother praying, knows so much better than to expect it to be answered. The swell of relief that fills his chest at the faint beating of a pulse under his fingertips feels almost like something answered, all the same.

Behind him, a twig cracks beneath a footstep. He's almost fast enough to turn.

The impact knocks him sideways off his feet. Dean swears, taking in a mouthful of soil and leaves as he scrambles for his gun. He can't free it. The rawhead advances, her withered face contorting in a screech. Above him, a roar drowns out the sound. Red eyes, glowing in the dark. The werewolf lunges over Dean’s prone form and collides with the rawhead with a force that sends both bodies tumbling backwards into the undergrowth. Dean shoves himself up to stand. Now he gets his gun free, points it. Aims, steadies—

Before he can fire, the wolf is back. Swats at the weapon, sends it spinning out of Dean’s grasp and away through the air. The rawhead runs. Dean curses again, more inventively this time.

Standing in front of him, Scott McCall draws a shuddering breath.

”She’s a mother!” Scott barks, and his hand on Dean's arm is impossibly strong. "She's not--she's looking for her own kid, look! She doesn’t want to hurt anybody!”

His face shifts briefly, and then the wolf crawls across his features once more. He turns away from Dean, exposing his back to the hunter— _stupid kid, doesn't he know what guys like me do to creatures like him?—_ and vanishes into the tunnel, pursuing the creature. The cracking of branches and inhuman roars fade into the distance; Dean pushes himself back to his feet, his head reeling.

There are children who need to be reunited with their parents, it’s an absurdly cold night considering they’re in California, and so Dean does not pursue the monsters into the dark. He tells himself this is the only reason.

* * *

Scott chases the creature through the cave, cobwebs and bits of slimy vegetation whipping at his face with intent that feels malicious. He pays them no heed as he corners the creature in a dead end, and then stops. Lifts his hands, feeling his claws retract back inside the tender human skin. “It’s okay, I’m not going to hurt you. I found your daughter.”

Mottled hair hangs limp over a pale, bloated face. The woman peers out at him, her spidery hands twisting against each other in the fabric of her coat. She draws a sharp breath, but doesn’t speak.

"She doesn't live here anymore, that’s why you couldn’t find her,” he says. "Your daughter. But she's okay, I promise."

"Then....where....?" the woman asks, in a voice like the blowing of wind through the trees.

Scott shakes his head, taking a cautious step forward. "You've been asleep for a very long time. My friends and I, we disturbed the energy in the woods, the Nematon, and we woke you up. I'm sorry. Look—here, you can talk to her—"

He reaches for his phone, fumbles pulling it out of his pocket, dials and passes it to the woman.

"Here she is. See?"

"Hello?" A woman's voice on the other end of the line, bright and chipper. “This is Jenna speaking, who’s there?”

The monster sinks to her knees, her head falling forward. “Sweetheart—“

"I--hang on-- _mom_?"

Scott watches as the rawhead's hair shifts, now glossy under the light of the nearly-full moon. Her voice softens as she speaks to her daughter, and her skin smooths into the normal creases and lines of age. He steps forward and drapes his jacket over the huddled woman, and then settles down cross-legged on the earth to wait.

* * *

An angel watches silently through the bushes as a teenager escorts an old woman safely out of the tunnel and into the moonlit wood. She is confused and weak; he holds her arm as gently as a boy scout helping her cross a busy road, and promises he'll bring her safely home.

* * *

The next afternoon, Dean sits down against the stone wall that rings the back of the high school. He's got his legs askance in a way that he hopes looks casual, and not like he's got a small arsenal of werewolf-killing nasties tucked up inside his jacket. Even if he's certain the kid isn't a threat by now, better safe than dead. Scott exits from a door in the middle of a pack of kids, casts a glance over his shoulder at the hunter, and frowns. Dean sees his muscles tense, though the kid doesn't actually wolf out as he jogs lightly over. Stops in front of Dean, asks cautiously, "Thought you were leaving?"

"Is _anybody_ in this god-forsaken Crazytown fully human? Anybody at all?" Dean blurts.

Scott shrugs mildly, settling back against the stone. "It's Beacon Hills," he says, as though that should be an explanation enough.

"Yeah, actually, I saw the sign on the way in. What the _hell_ is going on in this town?"

"Uh. Telluric currents, geothermic energy—lots of stuff. Look. You said it's undefended, but it's not. My friends and I—my pack—we do what we can." The teenager swallows hard, his gaze flicking down to his hands. "It's not always enough. But the monsters we get here—they're not always monsters. Nobody _wants_ to be a monster. So, we try to help them when we can.”

A pang of empathy twists Dean's gut. "Don't be too hard on yourself, kid. With this kind of weird, it's never going to be enough."

“I don’t believe that,” Scott counters. “Jenna picked up her mom this morning. Mrs Russell is still a bit confused, but she’s going to be alright.”

Dean stands slowly, feeling the joints in his knees pop beneath his weight. _I'm getting too old for this shit,_ he thinks. "Keep your pack on a leash. Don't make us come back here," is what he says aloud.

Scott lifts a cautious hand in a wave farewell, and watches the hunter go.

* * *

There are some places that simply don't make _sense_ , and Beacon Hills is one of them. The Impala roars as it chews up the highway out of town and Dean lets one hand rest on the steering wheel, the other drumming a pattern against his thigh.  _This is going to bite us in the ass, probably literally_ , he thinks. And then he consciously amends the thought:  _But probably not tonight._

He's briefly grateful for the highway lines and headlights that narrow his vision to the road, cutting out the forest that closes in on both sides of it. The woods are lovely, dark, and deep (or some other poetic garbage of the sort), and they're full of things that he knows in his bones are beyond his ability to fight. Some of them might not even need to be fought at all, and that's the most unsettling part of all of this.

 _Maybe Beacon Hills will be alright, after all._ Dean looks in the rear view mirror, to the full moon that floats serenely above the town nestled in the heart of the wilderness, and fervently hopes so.

**Author's Note:**

> Editing for formatting 2019-03-10.


End file.
